he more mournful became the noise, and
that was the only note I could get. When I went down to supper, Mrs.
A. asked me if I heard that awful groaning. She said she guessed it
came from Twiddler's cow, for she heard Mrs. Twiddler say yesterday
that the cow was sick.

For four weeks I could get nothing out of that horn but blood-curdling
groans; and, meantime, the people over the way moved to another house
because our neighborhood was haunted, and three of our hired girls
resigned successively for the same reason.

Finally, a man whom I consulted told me that "No One to Love" was an
easy tune for beginners; and I made an effort to learn it.

After three weeks of arduous practice, during which Mrs. A. several
times suggested that it was brutal that Twiddler didn't kill that
suffering cow and put it out of its misery, I conquered the first
three notes; but there I stuck. I could play "No One to--" and that
was all. I performed "No One to--" over eight thousand times; and
as it seemed unlikely that I would ever learn the whole tune, I
determined to try the effect of part of it on Mrs. A. About ten
o'clock one night I crept out to the front of the house and struck
up. First, "No One to--" about fifteen or twenty times, then a few of
those groans, then more of the tune, and so forth. Then Butterwick set
his dog on me, and I suddenly went into the house. Mrs. A. had the
children in the back room, and she was standing behind the door with
my revolver in her hand. When I entered, she exclaimed,

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come home! Somebody's been murdering a man in
our yard. He uttered the most awful shrieks and cries I ever heard. I
was dreadfully afraid the murderers would come into the house. It's
perfectly fearful, isn't it?"

[Illustration: A SCARED FAMILY]

Then I took the revolver away from her--it was not loaded, and she
had no idea that it would have to be cocked--and went to bed without
mentioning the horn. I thought perhaps it would be better not to.
I sold it the next day; and now if I want music I shall buy a good
hand-organ. I know I can play on that.

* * * * *

As music and sculpture are the first of the arts, I may properly refer
in this chapter to some facts relative to the condition of the latter
in the community in which I live. Some time ago there was an auction
out at the place of Mr. Jackson, and a very handsome marble statue
of William Penn was knocked down to Mr. W